Jeffries drew his cell-door to, and, as he stood holding it, gave the overseer a glance. That glance blazed.
“Don’t stare at me!” the officer exclaimed.
The convict lowered his eyes.
Minnie walked on reluctantly to the end of the ward, and stood there while the cell doors were locked; then, when she saw the hands pushed through the gratings, she ran down the walk, full of frolic, and caught one of them.
“You can’t get it away!” she cried, holding on to the white and well-formed hand with her tiny fingers.
Had any of his keepers been in front of Jeffries’ cell then, they would scarcely have recognized him. The bold eyes were soft and humid, the pallid face faintly colored, and a smile of tender sweetness trembled about the mouth.
Minnie leaned close against the grating, and looked through at the pictures that lined the walls of the cell. Only the iron rods separated her head from that guilty breast, some of her bright locks pushed through and touched the convict’s sleeve, and her tender hands still caressed that hand that had been stained with a brother’s blood.
“Are they your pictures?” she asked.
He reached, and, taking the prettiest one from the wall, gave it to her. Not even to her would he break the rule of silence.
“O Minnie! Minnie!” said the deputy chidingly, as he came down the walks, after making his rounds. “Why did you run away from me?”